


Revenant

by historymiss



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1469851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historymiss/pseuds/historymiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve makes it clear: you are James Buchanan Barnes. You'll remember in time. You practice the words to make sure you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenant

Steve helps you cut your hair, lends you the razor you use to scrape away the stubble. What you can do yourself, you do. You've had enough of being maintained.

As you work, Steve talks. Gentle, soft words, the way you'd speak to a spooked animal. He talks about Bucky.

He talks about the winter the heating broke, and all the pipes froze, and how funny he looked when he put on all of his sweaters at once, do you remember, Buck? And, hey, Buck- how about that time Dugan got thrown out of a bar in- what was it?

Steve leaves these hopeful gaps in the conversation, small holes that you're intended to fill, indications that once, your lives had fit together. You blink, once, slowly, and wait for your own memories to catch up.

They don't, and for a moment you both sit in silence until Steve brushes it off with a laugh that's too easy, too Captain-America for the situation.

"Never mind, Buck. You'll remember in time."

He moves on, to the rest of the war, and to the shared life, and at one point he gives you his sketchbook. One of them, anyway, he says, with an embarrassed smile, and you pick up on the unspoken hint and lick your lips to get the words out.

"You were always an artist, Steve."

That makes him happy. Which makes you happy. Which gives you a moment to turn the page and look at the images he's scratched down with pencil and charcoal, modern towers of steel and glass and soft-edged memories of a woman with neat, dark hair and a sad smile. You save your interest, though, for the man who looks like you.

As you examine the page after page of headshots, portraits, sketches, you tilt your head, try to imagine holding yourself in that cocky, relaxed way. Your stance in the chair shifts, and if Steve notices, he doesn't mention it.

He exhales, like he's reached a conclusion, and stands up.

"I'm gonna make coffee."

(You don't like coffee)

He catches your hesitation. "I'll make it strong." Steve smiles, slightly, and lifts his eyebrows. "The way you like it."

"Yeah, good." You match your intonation to his, the same accent, the same phrasing. 

The relief that breaks across Steve's face removes any doubt.

You're Bucky. You'll remember in time.


End file.
